


Rest Perturbed Spirit

by AssassinOfRome



Category: Hot Fuzz (2007)
Genre: Angst with comfort at the end, But nice ones, Graphic descriptions of rats, Mentions of weight loss, Nicholas Whump, Nicholas needs looking after, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Plot twist: someone does, Possibly reaching into realms of PTSD, Probably more night terrors, Protect this poor child, Seriously please help him, Spirits, Stressed Nicholas, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 11:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6327235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinOfRome/pseuds/AssassinOfRome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly bad dream, Nicholas take solace in someone he never expected to meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest Perturbed Spirit

_He’s running, that’s all Nicholas can remember. He doesn’t know where to, or what from, but there’s something behind him and he knows if he stops, there will be nothing but darkness. Guns are strapped all over his body, cold metal digging into his skin, and he can feel himself being weighed down. The streets change in front of him as he sprints – London, Christchurch, Sandford. None are home._

_He can hear blades dragging across the ground, growing sharper every second. A thousand objects litter his path, mostly bodies. He sees everyone he’s ever let down. Ex-colleagues tangle themselves into his shoes, victims reach for his ankles. Some are children, tugging at the legs of his trousers like they want to play, but their eyes are dead and cold. He can’t stop. He can’t stop because if he stops, then he thinks and then he is overwhelmed._

_In the next turning, he slides on pills and needles. A blood test in one, a sleeping draught in the other. There’s a horrible mechanical bleeping, and white coated strangers hitting him with hopelessness. Words burn like bullets from their torn mouths. Nothing to be done. Too soon to say. Possible brain damage. Unknown levels of trauma._

_His path is blocked by cameras. Giant apertures jerk in front of him, and he is blinded by flashing lights. He feels naked, cold in the night, skin turning blue with the icy winds. Microphones smash against his face, notepads record his every startled cry._

_Arms wrap around his waist and pull him backwards, into the Castle. The other officers are huddled there, around a fire, beckoning him close. He can’t stop running, can’t hide in their light because something’s coming._

_An explosion. White hot heat. His friends burn away, clinging to each other, and to him. The last thing he can feel is Doris’ hand in his, digging in tight enough to draw blood. The world around him darkens until he recognises it once more._

_The catacombs smell like blood, pissy beer and shit, like London on New Year’s Day, like his Uncle Derek on the night of his arrest, and the Crown after they pulled its owners away, Roy’s head still encased in the bear trap. He reaches up towards the light, feeling the warmth of it on his face. The sky turns the colour of Janine’s eyes, and suddenly one of the hoods is pulled down, and it’s her, chanting his demise. His nose is clogged with the scent of lilies, a thousand lilies, taking up the air until he can’t breathe. He reaches for a hand, anyone to pull him up, and brushes against many he remembers. His mother scratches her nails down his wrist, his brother yanks up until his shoulder threatens to snap, then lets him dangle, bending back his middle finger._

_One hand catches onto his and holds tight, strong and soft. Nicholas doesn’t need to look up to see that it’s Danny’s. When he does, the younger man’s face is melting away, burned by flames, and crumbling like George Merchant. He’s shrieking Nicholas’ name but he can’t let go, not until only blood remains. A sharp pain digs into his palm, a knife lodged between his fingers, and Nicholas finally allows himself to fall._

_He lands with a crunch, a rock slamming into his spine, and suddenly he can’t move, head tilted at a sickening angle, as rats, a hundred rats, burst through the walls of his cell. They watch for a moment, beady-eyed and bloody-minded, before scrabbling onto his skin, tearing with their teeth. He tries to resist, to scream, but their dirty feet scratch his lips before biting at his eyes, his cheeks, his -_

Nicholas’ eyes burst open, fingers snatching at the blankets. Contrary to the films he and Danny had watched together, he did not jerk upright, instead curling tighter and tighter. One hand pressed against his mouth, the other wrapped around his churning stomach. He could still feel those rats crawling in his skin, burrowing into his brain, eating his eyeballs…

He barely made it into the bathroom in time.

After one final retch, Nicholas rested his head against the cold porcelain, choking back a sob. His throat burned from the acid, and his stomach ached. Luckily, he’d skipped dinner the night before, feeling too paranoid to eat. He hated being alone in the cottage; he couldn’t help but feel that someone was always watching.

Maybe it was because of the history of the place. Once owned by the Wright family, it had passed into the hands of their youngest daughter, Irene. The place had been abandoned after she had married Frank and had a child in the Butterman ancestral home. No-one had strayed inside until Irene was dead, and Frank, full of rage and disgust at the world, had used it as a headquarters for the NWA. Nicholas had been assured that no-one had died in the place, but there was a high chance that bodies had been stored here, rotting away until the NWA had disposed of them.

All those lives. All that waste.

Nicholas gagged again, but nothing would come out. He felt his own fingertips scrabble at his middle, but nothing changed, even when tears sprung into his eyes.

His fault. All his fault. All those lives lost were his fault. The world looked at his obsession, his violence, and saw a hero. How was he that different from the NWA? During the take-down, he’d acted with a narrow-minded vengeance, with a selfishness that could have killed everyone he cared about.

But it hadn’t. No-one had been killed, except Tom Weaver, and no-one could argue that was Nicholas’ fault. Still, those eyes would haunt him; the desperation, the fear that he still saw sometimes in Gabriel. There had been no other deaths that day, not even Danny. Thank God.

Once the sickening spell had passed, Nicholas pushed himself away from the toilet, back pressing against the wall tiles. His breath came in short gasps, chest heaving as sweat beaded on his brow. It was just a bad dream, a nightmare, it wasn’t real. Danny was safe, everyone was safe.

Nicholas wondered if he should call someone. His first thought was Danny; the other officer’s soothing voice would calm him in seconds, his easy laugh could make Nicholas smile through anything. He couldn’t though; Danny was days away from leaving the hospital, and needed all the rest he could get. Part of Nicholas was relived; with Danny home, he could keep watch, make sure his condition was improving, and help in any way he could. They’d agreed to live together until Danny was fully recovered; the cottage had a downstairs bedroom, and it was somewhere safe and familiar. Danny’s own flat, and his father’s now empty house, both had inconvenient stairs, and were full of rotten memories.

With his breathing easing, Nicholas felt well enough to stand, though his legs shook, and he clung to the towel rack for fear of falling. Lurching forward, he felt the solid cold of the sink press into his sensitive stomach. A few seconds of batting around in the darkness allowed his fingertips to brush against the light switch, and the bathroom was flooded with brightness. Once the glare had faded, and his hissing of pain stopped, Nicholas glanced at himself in the mirror. Instinctively, he reached for a flannel, riding himself of tears, sweat and sick.

Though he felt a little fresher, he certainly didn’t look it. His skin was the colour of cigarette ash, paler than he’d ever seen it. Oddly, he thanked Simon Skinner for pressing his thumbs into Nicholas’ eyes, as it gave the officer an excuse to have slashes of purple across the top of his cheeks, instead of revealing his natural exhaustion. The bags, and the small stain of brown in his left eye, were the only traces of colour in his face. His jaw was covered in stubble; when was the last time he shaved? He couldn’t remember but no-one had said anything.

They hadn’t mentioned his weight loss either. Nicholas had always been slim, but since the Incident, he’d lost a stone through stress and sickness. In curious revulsion, Nicholas straightened up, and stared at his reflection’s torso. His chest was still juddering with every breath, but that could not hide the press of ribs against his skin, jutting out over his concave middle. His hips too pushed forward, pyjama bottoms threatening to slide off. Everywhere Nicholas looked, he could see bone; his cheeks, his wrists, his collar. Maybe it had been more than a stone.

With a sigh, Nicholas ran his hands through his lank hair. It needed a trim, but he couldn’t find the motivation to get it cut. Going to the barber meant going to the town centre, seeing the fountain where it had all started, reliving it all somewhere that wasn’t his bedroom. He simply couldn’t do it; not at the moment. It was stupid to fear such a place, but it didn’t stop his heart skipping a beat every time he drove through it to get to work.

Work and Fear. The two seemed to go hand in hand these days, though sometimes one defeated the other. He’d still never missed a shift since learning Danny was stable, and it often made him feel better to get back to normality, to speeding tickets and paperwork and his tidy desk, the last remnant of sanity. His co-workers had done nothing but support him, against the press and the Met, and the residents of Sandford who spat at him in the street, and sent death threats written in red. He’d even lived with Doris for a few weeks, whilst injured and incapable. Maybe he could call her; she’d probably have a solution, if not some shitty pun.

No, that wouldn’t be necessary. He was thirty-three, not thirteen; he didn’t need someone to hold his hand every time he had a bad dream. No, he just needed an hour of bad television, and he’d be back to sleep. He half-heartedly glanced at the shower, but an ominous dread made him turn away. Grabbing a glass from the windowsill, he rinsed his mouth and proceeded to brush his teeth, mint filling his senses and chasing away the last of the sickness. A cup of tea wouldn’t hurt either – fuck his no caffeine rule.

Creeping back into his bedroom, Nicholas glanced around. Nothing had been disturbed, other than the rumpled sheets he’d scrambled out of. Edging closer to the bed, he was glad everything had stayed dry. On his first week here, he hadn’t been so lucky; the washing machine had become his new best friend in Danny’s absence. He hated himself for being so childish; he hadn’t lost control that badly since shooting the crackhead.

Despite his claims of maturity, Nicholas still grabbed the top blanket, and wrapped it round his shoulders as he trudged down the stairs. Every squeak and creak sounded like a threat, but the warm folds of his blanket kept him safe and secure. Some hero he was.

Nicholas must have zoned out for a moment, because the next thing he could remember was standing in the kitchen, the kettle bubbling and boiling. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the scratch of stubble, and sighed. He couldn’t keep doing this, not if he was to care for Danny. His friend needed rest and protection, and what good could Nick do, if he was falling apart at the seams? Again, he wrapped an arm around his cramping stomach, feeling both parts defensive and queasy.

Tea and sugar both found its way into his mug, and then boiling water. Nicholas had focused on keeping his hands as still as possible to avoid scalds; another trip to hospital was the last thing he needed. He topped the drink off with lashings of cold milk, which chilled his fingertips as he pulled it from the fridge. Hot and cold; a juxtaposition if he ever knew one. Like a frightened hero.

It was quite the balancing act to manoeuvre his blanket and mug as he trudged into the living room. He didn’t recall turning on the lights, but the room was bathed in a soft glow from the corner lamp. With his drink secure, Nicholas flopped down onto the sofa, blanket in tow. He regretted it immediately. Pain screamed its way up his spine, locking around his chest as he yelped for mercy. The blanket tumbled uselessly around his hips as Nicholas pressed his hands against his lower back. He could feel his doctor scolding him for being so rough with himself. Technically, he was still supposed to be wearing his back brace, as his spine hadn’t completely healed from being broken during the explosion, but he’d been feeling a lot better. He thought longingly of his painkillers, lonesome on his bedside table. There was no way he was returning for them yet.

Easing himself into a more comfortable position, Nicholas curled up, kicking his feet onto the sofa. Usually, he would forbid sitting in such a manner, but he was too tired to argue with himself. He reached out and retrieved his tea, inhaling the soothing scent before taking a sip. The drink warmed him to his core. Nestling the mug in his lap, he pulled the blanket up.

Nicholas tilted his head back against the pillows, rubbing against his palm. His scar was acting up, hand spasming as a result of his bad dream. The pain always got worse on cold nights; he wondered if it would ever fade. He considered searching for some gloves, but suddenly had the sense that someone was watching him. Keeping his movements slow, he shifted into a defensive posture. If it hadn’t been able to see him, he might just have the advantage and could strike-

Nicholas felt his breath catch in his throat, as he glanced at the figure in front of the stairs.

It was a woman, or at least he assumed it was, with bright blonde hair, and a kindly smile. She was glowing, every part of her bathed in candlelight, but particularly her palms and eyes. She didn’t seem to step when she moved, instead floating forward. In a few heartbeats, she was in front of Nicholas, gazing down.

He wondered if he should feel scared. In fact, the opposite was true; all the fear and tension that had been brewing in his heart had been chased away by her golden presence. He didn’t want to move, or run, or even speak. He did though, when she asked him a question.

“My son.” Her lips didn’t move, smile unshifting, so Nicholas felt her voice more than anything. It was exactly as a mother’s should be, lilting and soft, warm with a hint of laughter. He felt he would do anything for her, so long as she kept talking.

“Safe.” He mumbled, throat suddenly dry. He was beginning to feel a little ill again, now that the terror had gone. The urge to have someone to care for him struck suddenly, a little hole in his heart he’d ignored for too long. Was it a selfish whim to have someone to look after him? “He’s in good hands.”

“Your hands.” The vision reached forward, and grasped his fingers gently. Nicholas’ mind was suddenly full of images; long summer days, and the taste of home-baking, and lullabies before bed. In a word, serenity. “Thank you for protecting my son.”

Nicholas wanted to reply, to ask her more, but her hand moved up to cup his cheek, thumb resting against his bottom lip. Her smile showed she already knew anything he was going to say. Her glowing increased, surrounding him like a loving embrace. Nicholas didn’t remember much else of that night, only that the vision leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his aching forehead.

Before long, his eyelids were slipping shut, and his sleep was mercifully dreamless. 

**Author's Note:**

> Holy fuck, I actually wrote something - damn! 
> 
> Don't worry - I've not given up with Trouble I'm Already In, even though I haven't updated in forever. I'm hoping to get some more done over Easter, as well as finishing off some other stuff. 
> 
> I hope you like this, even though it's not grammar checked yet. 
> 
> Any comments are welcome! :D 
> 
> The title comes from Shakespeare's Hamlet.


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